A Royal Match

by Connell O'Tyne

  ‘Is that really how your father talks?’ Indie asked, giggling at Star’s mimicking of her perpetually stoned sounding father. Because even when he wasn’t stoned he still sounded stoned.

  ‘There’s no way I’d let my parents choose my GCSEs,’ Arabella added as she climbed onto the table with a bowl of cereal. ‘It’s my life. My parents wouldn’t dare imagine they had the remotest right to ask what subjects I’d chosen. I’d cut them off, totally cut them off’ – she imitated a pair of scissors cutting – ‘if they tried to influence my life in any way whatsoever.’

  ‘Off that table right now,’ ordered one of Sandra’s henchwomen walking by. ‘Tables is for sitting at innit, not on. I don’t know what your parents is teaching you, I don’t.’

  ‘Grammar mostly,’ Honey sneered, and everyone laughed. Arabella still sat down on the bench, though. ‘My parents couldn’t care less what I study or what grades I get. They haven’t ever read one of my reports.’

  ‘Nor have mine,’ Georgina agreed.

  ‘Sophisticated people realise that life is for living, not working,’ Honey remarked pointedly, knowing I didn’t have a trust fund to rely on like everyone else in the school. ‘Besides, I’m probably going to fail everything anyway, what with all the time I’ll be taking off this term. Darcy Greggs wants me in his show at London Fashion Week,’ she explained. ‘Mummy says it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’

  ‘More of an opportunity than Latin, that’s for sure,’ agreed Star, necking her juice.

  I felt like I’d been slapped. After all our years of mutual loathing of Honey, it was as if Star were siding with her against me – even if it was over something as dismal as Latin. I looked around the group of girls as they nodded their heads in agreement and spooned their cereal or dipped their croissants. I felt like I was in a play without a script.

  ‘It’s not as if I don’t loathe Latin too,’ I explained helplessly, ‘but I do think that I’ll be able to do quite well without putting in much work, as my main objective is to focus on my fencing.’ I looked to Star for support on this as we’d been fencing from the first day we started at Saint Augustine’s. We were sisters-in-arms, and over the summer we’d discussed at length how pleased we were that we’d chosen easy subjects that wouldn’t be too demanding and cut in on our fencing.

  Star avoided my gaze in a guilty-ish sort of way and began playing with her braids. I carried on gamely. ‘Maybe you should reconsider, because we’re going to need all the easy subjects we can get with the Nationals coming up, Star.’

  Everyone blinked at me disinterestedly, as if I’d been talking about the variety of school jumpers on offer this season. Honey took this opportunity to inform Georgina that she had already secured front row seats at the show for her and her mother. But I barely heard her because suddenly Star, still playing with her braids, remarked casually, ‘Actually, Calypso, I’ve decided to drop fencing.’

  ‘No!’ I blurted before I could stop myself. ‘You can’t drop fencing!’

  Star and I had first bonded on the piste. Fencing was how we had distinguished ourselves from the ghastly Sloaney girls she’d always professed to hate. It was the cornerstone of our relationship. She couldn’t drop fencing. It would be like dropping … well, it would be like dropping me. ‘Why?’

  She avoided my gaze by looking deeply into one of the corn braids in her hand. ‘Yaah, see, Calypso, I’m going to focus on my music.’

  I watched as Indie and Star smiled excitedly at one another. ‘Indie and I have already spoken to Sister Constance and we’re going to lay down some tracks for a demo CD,’ she added.

  ‘Isn’t that cool?’ Indie finished, her eyes brimming with enthusiasm.

  I felt like I was hovering outside my body as I watched Star and Indie look at me as if I should be thrilled. As if I should be jumping up and down with glee that my best friend was walking away from our greatest bond. Instead, I looked at her like she was someone I didn’t know anymore.

  What had happened to Star and Calypso, the sabreurs, the girls who wore their pain like lip-gloss, the Star and Calypso who rinsed boys on the piste and kissed them off? Besides, Star had a massive crush on Mr Sullivan, so I didn’t know how she was going to cope without a daily shot of him. And then I remembered we had a new fencing master this year.

  Portia joined us then, sitting down in her quiet, long-legged, elegant way and touched my arm. ‘Guess that leaves just you and me on the sabre team, darling.’

  ‘I guess it does,’ I agreed, only I was looking at Star as I said it. ‘The thing is you need three people on a team in order to fence.’

  And then suddenly, Indie turned to me and remarked, ‘I’m doing Latin, actually. I’ll come by your room after inspection. We can share the joy of verb declensions together.’ She turned back to the others. ‘I’m following Calypso’s plan to go for the easy A-star. I’m doing French, Italian and Ancient Greek as well.’

  ‘Ancient Greek!’ Honey shrieked in her hyena squeal. ‘No one does Ancient Greek, apart from miserable train wrecks like our American Freak here, of course. But no one who matters does Ancient Greek. It’s a dead language.’

  ‘I wish you were dead,’ I almost said, and then I realised Star had said it for me. She looked at me and I saw she was miming lip-gloss application and looking at me as if wanting my forgiveness. Honey continued to laugh, though. Most girls look even lovelier when they smile and laugh, but because of all her cosmetic enhancements, Honey looked hideous. The Botox meant all the wrong parts of her face moved. When she finally stopped her giggles, the table was silent and we stared as Indie slowly and contemptuously raised one eyebrow to her.

  ‘See, that’s where you’re wrong, Honey. I’m as far from being “no one” as you are ever likely to meet in your dismal little world of wind-ups, put-downs, bad piss-takes and designer nastiness.’ With that, Indie stood up in the most composed way I’ve ever seen anyone other than Portia stand up. She gave Honey the most withering look I’d ever seen – and believe me, at Saint Augustine’s I’ve seen plenty of withering looks.

  Everyone’s eyes flicked between Indie and Honey. Honey seemed to shrivel with each passing nanosecond of the look Indie gave her. I was right. Between Miss Bibsmore and Indie, Honey was going to have a rough term. I almost felt sorry for her.

  Indie smiled gaily at the rest of us, reminded me she’d drop by my room before Latin and excused herself with a sweet little wave and walked out of the ref imperiously, trailed by her bodyguards. The effect was slightly spoilt when one of the guards, attempting to put Indie’s tray in the tray trolley, was ticked off by Sandra and told to fetch ‘the little madam’ back to do it for herself.

  Star and Georgina, their corn braids as stiff and hard as the lump forming in my throat, giggled at the poor bodyguard humiliated in front of a school of girls for being a lap dog. ‘Perhaps Cheltenham ladies let bodyguards fetch and carry?’ Star joked.

  ‘Imagine if they allowed that here! We’d all make our parents assign us bodyguards if that were the case!’ Georgina laughed.

  Honey didn’t join in; she just stared evilly after the disappearing figure of Indie.

  ELEVEN:

  Old Enemies, New Friends

  ‘I’ll see you in the salle before French, then? Mr Wellend is expecting us.’

  ‘Mr Wellend?’ I repeated, confused.

  ‘The new fencing master?’

  ‘Oh yaah,’ I agreed, remembering that not even fencing was going to be the same this term.

  Portia added, ‘Think of it this way: now that Star’s chucked it, he’ll have more time to focus on us, darling. We can be his star pupils.’

  I smiled, knowing she was reaching out to me, but the truth was I felt like the ground beneath my feet was shifting and that it was only a matter of time before I lost Star and Georgina to Indie for good.

  After breakfast, we went to chapel and then back to our rooms to make our beds and clean our teeth before room inspection. Any fantasy I had briefly c
lung to that Honey’s newfound enemy, Miss Bibsmore, would dilute Honey’s horribleness evaporated as soon as the first bell went and Honey accidentally-on-purpose spilt a full glass of water on my bed, seriously drenching my mattress.

  Portia was in the bathroom brushing her teeth at the time and without a witness it was pointless to dream Honey would ever apologise. All I could do was pull the covers off and hope the mattress would dry out before I had to sleep on it that night. But I wasn’t counting on any miracles.

  Out of misery more than anything I turned my mobile on to check for messages, and Honey’s meanness was suddenly the furthest thing from my mind. I had two new txt messages.

  See you in Windsor on Saturday? Freds. x

  To which I faux-casually replied,

  You read my mind! x C

  The next one was from Billy, sent at the same time, early this morning.

  Wots up? Billy xx

  Honey’s just wet my bed xx Calypso

  He sent me a txt straight back.

  Incontinent little bitch! See you in Windsor on Saturday.

  B.

  Honey was in the en suite so I showed Billy’s txt to Portia. As she scrolled down through the txts she pointed out that my battery was low. Then her face broke into a smile, and as she read the last message she began to laugh.

  She was still laughing when Honey came out of the bathroom.

  ‘What’s so interesting about the txt, then?’ Honey asked in an I-couldn’t-be-less-interested sort of way.

  ‘Oh, nothing, darling,’ Portia assured her, handing me back my mobile and quietly attending to the tidying of her area.

  I was feeling so happy that I didn’t even feel pissed off when Miss Bibsmore came in and asked who wet my mattress.

  ‘Just an accident,’ I told her, no longer bothered by the soggy mattress I’d have to sleep on that night. Boys are brilliantly distracting like that.

  Miss Bibsmore didn’t look convinced.

  Honey laughed. ‘Americans are so clumsy.’

  ‘I’ve warned you, madam, I’m on to you,’ was all Miss Bibsmore would say as she eyed Honey up and down. ‘Now don’t forget, girls, you’ve been asked to report to the infirmary after lunch for your flu jabs innit.’

  After Miss Bibsmore was out of earshot, I went, ‘Oh needles, just what I need to make this day perfecto!’

  It was the sort of joke I would make for Star usually, but Portia laughed and, weirdly, so did Honey. Then she said, ‘So are you going to share that txt with me, then?’

  I was saved from replying though because the bell to class suddenly went off, and Indie stuck her head into our room. ‘Coming?’ she asked.

  I hastily plugged my phone into its charger and left it on my bedside table before chasing after her, followed by Portia.

  ‘Enjoy your Latin, girls,’ Honey called out after us.

  Latin was in one of the older buildings and consequently freezing cold. I was so regretting taking it, and not just because Star had dropped it. We filed into the empty class and I grabbed a table by the radiator, which gave off a sort of mild warmth. Portia sat beside me and Indie sat in front.

  Even though Ms Mills was always threatening the physical manifestations of our souls, at least she knew her stuff. Now that we were in Year Eleven, we’d been lumped with a Mrs Obar, whose only qualification for the job as our Latin teacher, we soon realised, was ‘I’ve been a teacher for thirty-seven years! Thirty-seven years, so there’s nothing you can tell me!’

  Indie turned around to me. ‘As if there is the remotest chance she’ll ever draw breath long enough to let anyone tell her anything.’

  Mrs Obar threw some chalk at her as if it was the most normal behaviour in the world; then she ordered us to open our books, sit up straight and pay attention. I noticed Indie bend down and retrieve the chalk from the floor a little later when Mrs Obar wasn’t looking.

  After Mrs Obar struggled for a while with pronunciation, Portia put her hand up to question Mrs Obar on her specific qualifications to teach us Latin. Her response was to throw a piece of chalk at her as well, which Portia deflected with her Cicero translation book. Like Indie, I retrieved the piece of chalk from the floor, and later when Mrs Obar’s back was to us, I threw it at her, which set all of us off giggling. Of course at our exclusive school no class had more than five in it, and in this case there were only the three of us, so our laughter didn’t create much of a noise, and to preserve her dignity perhaps, Mrs Obar pretended she hadn’t felt the chalk and continued writing on the board.

  Indie turned around and passed me a note in her neat handwriting.

  Next time throw the book!!

  Mrs Obar didn’t pretend to ignore the note, though. She swooped down on us like a witch in her black serge gown and snatched it up.

  ‘And what might this note mean, Miss Kelly?’

  ‘We were sharing a translation,’ Portia told her swiftly. ‘See?’ Relying on Mrs Obar’s ignorance, Portia pointed to a passage in her book.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Mrs Obar conceded. ‘Very good, Lady Herrington Briggs, but Miss Kelly will eventually have to come to grips with her translations herself if she’s to distinguish herself to the examiners.’

  I struggled to turn my barely suppressed smile into a look of humble acknowledgment but failed when Indie burst out laughing in her distinctive fulsome way, for which she was given a blue.

  By Year Eleven you just stick your blues into your book and hand them over to a Year Seven to do for you in exchange for sweets or some other privilege. But as I was already starting to realise, Indie wasn’t like most girls.

  She refused the blue that Mrs Obar passed to her, and merely looked at it as if it was a pair of dirty knickers. ‘I’m not accepting that, Mrs Obar!’

  Mrs Obar raised her voice. ‘Excuse me, madam, but you will accept this blue or you’ll be getting another.’

  Indie stood up. ‘Hardly!’ she exclaimed in a voice of shock, her hand over her heart in mortification. Then she continued calmly, ‘With all due respect, Mrs Obar, how can I possibly excuse you for wasting my time when I’m sitting eleven GCSEs and I’ve learnt absolutely nothing in your class so far. I’m sorry, but if I were to accept your blue in all conscience I’d be obliged to make a complaint to my father about the inadequacy of my tuition.’ And then she played her trump card as she held out a clenched fist and opened her hand to reveal the piece of chalk Mrs Obar had thrown at her earlier. ‘Also, I doubt he’ll be thrilled to hear that my teacher has been hurling chalk missiles at me.’

  I was as awed as Mrs Obar, who was blatantly humiliated and stuck for words. She stood there for a full minute clutching her blue importantly, but eventually she gathered herself together, shoved the blue into her desk drawer and returned to the board, where she proceeded to write down the pages in our workbooks that we needed to cover in prep that evening.

  Portia, Indie and I all exchanged looks. I mouthed the words ‘soooo cool,’ but by the end of class Mrs Obar was even letting us chat amongst ourselves. She’d been rumbled and she knew it.

  Next class was English literature with Ms Topler. I want to be a writer, but Ms Topler would make the most enthusiastic novelist stick pins in her eyes. We were doing Shakespeare’s King Lear, which is my favourite play of all. You’d think given how much I love the play and how it was Shakespeare it would be hard to ruin. But I trusted that Ms Topler’s capable hands would dissect and deconstruct my beloved King Lear into something we could nod off to. I love Cordelia’s honesty. I love that she dares to stick up for the truth even though she knows her father is a total grown-up, and ipso facto an egotistical hypocrite on a power trip. A bit like Ms Topler, I was thinking as she droned on and on about hubris. There’s nothing Ms Topler loves more than a good drone.

  After lunch, I trudged off to Ancient Greek. Portia was already there, and I sat at the desk beside her. Our teacher, Doctor Buffner, told us that we’d be doing Oedipus Rex, and for a special treat we were going to Cambridge after ha
lf term to see it performed.

  ‘I hope they have a good DVD on the coach ride there,’ I whispered to Portia, because that’s usually the only fun part about school trips.

  ‘I know, can you imagine listening to an entire play in Ancient Greek?’ she whispered back.

  We both simultaneously slumped on our desks at the very thought of listening to a whole play’s worth of incoherent piffle.

  Indie arrived late, and while she had a quiet word with Doctor Buffner, Portia asked me about Billy and Freddie and who I liked the most.

  ‘Well, that’s what I don’t know,’ I confided. ‘But I keep telling myself, as soon as I see them it will all work out.’

  ‘I think Billy’s seriously fit,’ Portia said. ‘I mean as a fencer, on the piste. You know, he is the captain, and well …’

  I looked at her quizzically. ‘Fitter than Freddie?’ I asked, suddenly feeling an acute need to start getting some perspective on the decision awaiting me, because like I said, as much as having a txt romance with two boys at once was fun, it couldn’t go on indefinitely.

  Portia didn’t get a chance to answer though, as Indie joined us and class resumed.

  After lunch, I made a quick detour to the pet shed to check on Dorothy, but my head was full of what Portia had said about Billy being fit. Even though she’d qualified it by referring to his fencing ability, I felt a bit uneasy. Not jealous exactly; in fact, it sort of tipped my affections in favour of Freddie. Poor Freddie, I thought, feeling fiercely protective of his looks. The truth was, though, they were pretty evenly matched in the fit stakes. Billy was older, which gave him added kudos, but then Freddie was heir to the throne. It was like I had both boys on a set of scales and I couldn’t bear to imagine the balance being tipped in one boy’s favour.

  I picked up Dorothy. She’d put on weight, I decided, as I carried her over to the pet run for a little hop. The only other girls there were Year Sevens and Eights, so when they offered to look after her for me, I agreed, as I had to rush to the infirmary for the hated flu shot.